


know that you got the potential to pick me up

by audenrain



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Set During DA:I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:01:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27403189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audenrain/pseuds/audenrain
Summary: All of this was to say that Hawke ended up climbing the garden wall and through Varric’s window in her nightshirt and trousers on a whim that she finally felt free to follow, and the possibility that she was wrong no longer held quite so much fear. It was the end of the world. She may as well. Whatever else came of it, Hawke had no regrets about this part: there was little she loved better than the chance to rifle through a person’s things. It was the reason she’d learned how to pick locks in the first place.
Relationships: Female Hawke/Varric Tethras, Hawke/Varric Tethras, background Adaar/Josephine
Comments: 7
Kudos: 86





	know that you got the potential to pick me up

**Author's Note:**

> title from fiona apple's "i want you to love me".

It was worth it just for the look on Varric’s face when he saw her, lounging in Herald’s Rest, wearing one of his signature crimson tunics. He stopped dead a few feet from the table. She smiled blithely, watching him take in the sight of her. She’d gotten about two thirds of the way through fastening it when she grew sick of the endless little golden toggles and loops - more tiresome than corset lacings, in Hawke’s very limited experience - so she was showing more skin than decency might dictate, but far less than Varric on a normal day. Still, the tunic sat precariously on her much narrower shoulders; she had to keep adjusting it to ensure it didn’t slip off one side and expose her to the whole tavern.

“Hawke,” Varric said at last, recovering. He pulled out the chair across from her and sat. Funny enough, he was not wearing a red tunic today, but a deep blue one - sea silk, if she was not mistaken. “If you’re trying out a new look, may I suggest a bold scarf, or maybe a jaunty hat?”

“Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery,” Krem put in wryly. Hawke shot him a look.

“Careful, his ego doesn’t need any more inflating,” she warned. To Varric, she said, “Don’t get all excited, now. I needed a clean shirt. The washing wasn’t back yet, this morning.”

“And you broke into my room to steal one instead of asking the quartermaster for a spare?” Varric clicked his tongue, raising his eyebrows. Krem snorted.

“I like to keep you humble by reminding you your locks still aren’t good enough to keep me out,” Hawke said. In fact, she had broken a couple lockpicks in the attempt and ended up scaling the castle walls to climb in the window instead; but he wouldn’t discover that for another few hours and the odds seemed thin that he would bother bringing it up again. “In fact, I think I’ve done you a favour. What if my intentions had been less honourable?”

Varric gave her a long, indecipherable look. “I don’t think I’d call anything about this honourable,” he said, and Hawke looked right back at him with a bemused little smile until Krem cleared his throat.

“Shall I deal you in, Varric? The game’s Diamondback.”

“Sure,” said Varric, although he hadn’t broken eye contact with Hawke. “I’ll play.”

  
  
  
  


It hadn’t been a lie. The washing had come back late that morning; by the time Hawke went back to her room around lunchtime, it was sitting neatly folded on her bed. But by then she was already in the borrowed shirt, and the thought of Varric’s face when he saw her was too good to resist. She had been thinking about it for some time, now, the possibility that although Varric liked to say he’d never been into humans, every rule had an exception. She had wondered, at times, if there was something else in the way Varric used to look at her after a few drinks, in the warm low light of the Hanged Man; but then he would make some ribald joke or call for another round, and the moment would pass, and she would think, _You’re imagining things._

At the time, it hadn’t much mattered. Hawke was too preoccupied with keeping her head above water and the city from falling to pieces; she hadn’t had time for more than a few nights of fun with Isabela. And that was well and good, because Isabela didn’t get attached. The risk was far greater with anyone else. 

Of course, it wasn’t as if everything had finally settled down and they now had time to pick daisies and braid each other’s hair. Things were in shambles now more than ever. But the crucial difference was that there was exponentially less pressure on Hawke _specifically_ to fix it all. She did not envy Inquisitor Adaar a single ounce of the weight on her shoulders. Hawke would help as much as she was able, but at the end of the day all eyes were on the Inquisition to sort things out, and she wasn’t even on their payroll. So she had a little more time than before to consider; and it didn’t hurt that hearing everyone describing the Breach as _the end of the world_ tended to make things feel a little more urgent. It probably wasn’t. But then again, if it was… Well, she was finding herself distracted by little things, lately, like how small a spread of playing cards looked in Varric’s hands.

All of this was to say that Hawke ended up climbing the garden wall and through Varric’s window in her nightshirt and trousers on a whim that she finally felt free to follow, and the possibility that she was wrong no longer held quite so much fear. It was the end of the world. She may as well.

(She had knocked on the door first, before trying and failing to pick the lock. Awfully awkward to break into an occupied suite.)

Whatever else came of it, Hawke had no regrets about this part. There was little she loved better than the chance to rifle through a person’s things. It was the reason she’d learned how to pick locks in the first place.

The bed was tidily made; underneath it were a spare pair of boots and Bianca, sitting snugly in her leather case. The bed was intriguing only for the potential it held - on its own, it was unremarkable. Sturdy, wooden, with a dark blue blanket and two pillows at the head. The dresser, her real goal, was tucked in the corner - that she would save for later. The desk was by far the most interesting piece of furniture in the room: it was disproportionately large for the space, and held almost everything Varric considered necessities. Upon it sat a half-burnt candle; wax tablets for melting, a spoon and a small bronze seal with the Tethras crest; several pens in a little brass cup; an inkwell; a stack of vellum and a separate stack of paper, each weighed down by a polished stone. The desktop was faintly marked - Hawke could see all the places Varric had pressed a little too hard with his pen tip and scratched up the wood beneath. She touched the grooves with her fingertips. Maybe she would offer to sand it down and refinish it. Her father has taught her how, once.

In the top drawer Hawke found a small silver mirror - no doubt for shaving, as it was accompanied by a bar of soap with a lather brush and a razor in a velvet pouch. The soap smelled of nothing, but next to it was a tiny bottle of scented oil. It smelled like the woods, crisp and rich all at once - something like a pine tree on fire. Hawke recognized it, though she hadn’t known its source before. It was certainly expensive - the label was written in Orlesian.

The other desk drawer contained little of interest - some twine; a carved onyx letter opener; a small abacus; an unpublished installment of _Hard in Hightown_ that Varric’s editor had sent back with notes. There was also a stack of letters from Bianca, which were less uninteresting and more akin to a coiled viper. Hawke shut the drawer as soon as she realized, wiping her hands on her trousers to forget the texture of the vellum.

Her curiosity sated, she moved to the dresser at last. The first drawer was full of socks and underthings; the next held shirts and tunics, and she did not have to look hard to find a red one. He had two of them, perfectly identical. How practical. For good measure she peeked in the other drawers, too, a little disappointed to have her search over so soon: trousers in the third drawers, and clothing for snow and rain in the bottom. Nothing especially scandalous there. (Hawke did not know precisely what scandalous thing she expected to find, but as a rule, it never hurt to check.)

Not wishing to leave his door unlocked for just anyone to walk in, she left the same way she came. The sisters in the garden murmured to themselves, but they had seen her climbing in not so long ago, so they weren’t likely to come to any premature conclusions. Anyway, Hawke felt they deserved a little amusement - what might Sebastian have been like if he’d let himself laugh a little more often? She gave them a pleasant wave and watched them instantly turn back to their work.

Hawke was also not too concerned if the stunt did provoke gossip. Varric’s reaction to it might help her figure all this out, and she had grown immune to caring what people said about her personal life. That was out of necessity - by her fourth or fifth year in Kirkwall, the rumour mill was always circulating something about her.

The experiment was a thorough success, all in all. Varric had clearly been affected by the sight, and it had not been only shock, because the way the shirt kept slipping down her shoulder had drawn his gaze more than once throughout their game. That didn’t mean a whole lot on its own, of course. But it was something.

  
  
  
  


The real problem was that Hawke was not well-versed in seduction techniques. No doubt there were whole books on the topic, and they probably involved the subtle language of dropped handkerchiefs and fan-fluttering. Obviously, that was not going to work, for a number of reasons, so Hawke was left with known quantities: first, that Varric had been visibly distracted by the sight of her in his shirt, and at least some of that seemed to be directed in the vicinity of her chest; second, that Hawke was not _un_ gifted in such areas, but it was entirely possible Varric had not had occasion to notice this fact. She kept them bound, mostly, since it was difficult to swing a greatsword cleanly when one’s tits were bouncing in different directions.

This was a less creative tactic, but it built upon the first, so Hawke felt it was justified. She was not about to don a corset, as much as Bethany swore to their comfort when laced properly, but she did have a shirt somewhere in the back of her drawers that fit a little too snugly. With three or four buttons undone, she thought it would do nicely.

It did. She was no Isabela, but a fastened button just below her breasts left her with more impressive cleavage than she could recall ever having. Now she just had to hope that no buttons burst off at any point in the evening.

The plan tonight was to play dice in Varric’s chambers, as even they sometimes tired of the substandard ale in the Rest, and Varric had recently gotten a crate of good Antivan wine delivered. Hawke brought a tray of food, balanced against her hip, laden with cheeses - one tangy and crumbly, another soft and mild with a pale rind, a third sharp and hard, still preserved in a dark casing of wax - sliced apples and salted crackers dusted with ground spices. It was a good spread, and Hawke had worked for it by dredging up a story or two that had not ended up in Varric’s book for a couple of starry-eyed cooks.

“Hawke,” Varric said when he opened the door. He wasn’t looking at her yet, but at the bottle of wine in his hands. He was working on uncorking it. “Come in, there’s-”

From anyone else, Hawke wasn’t sure she’d enjoy the slack-jawed expression that passed over Varric’s face when he looked up. But in this moment, she suddenly understood a little better why Isabela walked around dressed the way she did. 

“I thought I’d make sure we weren’t drinking on empty stomachs,” Hawke said brightly, lifting the tray of food. Varric cleared his throat.

“Good idea,” he said, pulling the cork out with a satisfying pop. “Antivan wine always seems to go to my head a little quicker.”

He’s set up two chairs and a small folding table between them. On the table were two wine glasses, two dice cups, and Varric’s set of dice. Hawke had brought her own. “Well,” Hawke said, putting the tray on the desk and taking a seat, “I hear the Inquisitor’s party is expected back tomorrow.”

“I hope so. I asked Ruffles to bring me a few things back from Val Royeaux.” Varric poured the wine. It was very dark, swallowing up the candlelight. He pushed the cork partway back into the neck of the bottle and set it down. 

“Another bottle of perfume?” Hawke teased, before catching herself. Varric raised an eyebrow. Was his shirt unlaced a little farther than usual today, or was she absolutely losing it?

“Been sniffing my hair when my back is turned, Hawke?”

Hawke bit down on her tongue. Change the subject and take the embarrassment, or admit to snooping through more than just his clothes? “I don’t have to,” she said. “You were wearing a little too much the other day.”

Varric smiled into his wine, and his eyes crinkled at the corners. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said. “Shall we roll?”

Hawke dug her dice out of her pocket and poured them into the cup. “Let’s.”

The wine was good - worth every penny Varric had paid, however many pennies that had been. Hawke was not trained in such things, but it went down smooth as butter, at once sweet and a little spiced.

They looked beneath their cups. “A guest always goes first,” Varric offered.

“How magnanimous,” said Hawke. “Two threes.”

Varric considered. His eyes flickered downwards, just for a moment. Hawke felt a little thrill go through her. “Three threes.”

“Call,” said Hawke, operating on gut instinct. They lifted their cups - they had one three each. Varric swore as he pushed one of his dice aside.

“Just be glad we aren’t playing for coin tonight,” Hawke pointed out. Varric narrowed his eyes at her.

“Are you bored, Hawke?” he asked as they loaded their dice into their cups again.

“Bored? With such excellent wine and company?”

“No, I mean-” Varric paused as they checked their rolls. “Here in Skyhold. Are you bored? Four fives.”

“Oh.” Hawke paused. She had one five. “No, not bored. It’s pleasant, actually. Two sixes. Why do you ask?”

It would have been more accurate to say that she was a little bored, and that it made a nice change. But Hawke did not want to admit that she had not been as rigorous as she usually would be in finding something productive to occupy her time.

“Just… trying to puzzle something out.” Varric shook his head. “Sixes… Three sixes.”

That wasn’t a bet worth calling, not while she was in the lead, even if he had seemed to stutter. “Do you have some task for me then? Keep me out of Mummy and Daddy’s way?”

Varric tilted his head to one side. “Who’s Daddy in this scenario?”

Hawke blinked. Best not to touch that one. “Three fives.”

Varric smiled. “I don’t have a task for you, no. Four sixes.”

Now he was _daring_ her to call. Which was all the more reason not to. “Two fours. What makes you think I’m bored?”

“One four. No reason.” Varric took a sip of his wine and reached over to load a cracker with a slice of apple and a morsel of cheese. He took his time chewing and swallowing. Somehow, Hawke felt she was being toyed with, but she could not put her finger on how.

“Seems like something’s bothering you,” Hawke said, and she crossed her arms. It was not a move she made lightly - in fact, she’d been saving it for later on when they were deeper in their cups, but she was beginning to feel like she was losing control of the conversation. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Varric looked, and did not try to hide it. Her mouth felt suddenly dry, and she took a drink of wine. “Me, I’m good. You going to call, or make another bet?”

Hawke was having trouble remembering what his bet had been. “Call,” she said, rashly. They lifted their cups. She could tell, by the satisfied noise Varric made, that she had lost the round. It was as good a reason as any to drop the subject and focus on the game - even if they weren’t betting with money, there was still her pride to think of.

It was possible that this had been _slightly_ less successful than her earlier gambit. Clearly, she no longer had the advantage of surprise.

  
  
  
  


The next day Varric was wearing a shirt without sleeves. Hawke had known he was strong - he had to be, to heft Bianca with such ease, and the breadth of his shoulders and the width of his arms were hardly hidden by his usual clothing - but still, to see the muscle carved out in sharp relief by the firelight was something else entirely. He was in his usual place by the hearth in the main hall, a half-written manuscript spread out on the table before him.

“Now who’s trying a new look,” she commented, pausing next to him on her way to the war table. “What happened to ‘a bold scarf or a jaunty hat’?”

“Ah, hats have never really suited me,” Varric said, setting down his pen and leaning back in his chair. He had still left the shirt half-laced, the harlot. “Besides, someone still hasn’t returned my favourite shirt.”

Never mind that he still had a spare. This was not a coincidence; it was a calculated move. That ought to have been encouraging - it was an answer, of sorts - but now there was an element of competition to this, and Hawke had never been one to forfeit. She put a hand on the edge of the table and leaned down a little. “I hope you’re not cold in this one,” she said. “Bit drafty in here today.”

Varric smiled and crossed his arms. The movement made his biceps swell. Hawke could not recall ever having seen so much of his skin before, except perhaps in relation to the treatment of life-threatening injuries. “Oh, I’m comfortable. How about you?”

Hawke considered kicking the chair out from under him. She recognized this was an overreaction to an innocuous question. She wanted to bite down on the muscle of his shoulder.

Maker. This was spiraling out of control.

  
  
  
  


If Hawke had any sense, she might have eased off. Instead she spent their next card game drinking straight from a wine bottle and licking stray drops from the rim whenever possible. It was impossible to tell if he noticed - Varric’s mask when he bluffed was second only to Josephine’s, and he didn’t often crack - but he did fail to call her on a particularly stupid bluff, so she decided to chalk it up as a partial win. 

Varric retaliated days later by telling her that he was stuck on some scene for his next book, and would be so much indebted to her if she would read it and tell him what about it wasn’t working. She arched an eyebrow. “I’m hardly a literature critic,” she said, taking the thin sheaf of papers he slid across the table. “And I’m shocked you would deprive Cassandra of the opportunity.”

Varric waved a dismissive hand. “She’s a fan, she’ll be biased. You, I always trust to give it to me straight.”

The scene that had him so perplexed turned out to be a filthy romp between an unnamed man and woman. It seemed to have no context and no purpose except to make Hawke blush, which pleasure she did her best to deny him and almost succeeded until she reached the part where the woman was encouraged to straddle her partner’s shoulders so that he could better use his tongue-

Hawke tossed the papers down as though she had grown bored of them. Her face felt hot. Blast her pale Ferelden complexion. “More dragons,” she said decisively, pushing them back across the table.

“Dragons,” Varric echoed, sounding amused. She could not yet look him in the face.

“Yes,” she said, shifting restlessly in her chair. “Add a dragon in there, that’ll stir things up. Now let me finish this letter to Aveline, you absolute pest.”

  
  
  
  


Inquisitor Adaar was the most soft-spoken qunari Hawke had ever encountered. “She used to be a mercenary?” Hawke had asked Varric, not long after her arrival in Skyhold. Varric had assured her that the Inquisitor was a force to be reckoned with when it counted - and since then Hawke had certainly witnessed it on the battlefield - but in her off hours, she was quiet and kept mostly to herself. She was rarely persuaded to join them in the tavern, and when she did she drank little. She was kind, but ultimately a little boring. That was probably a good quality in a leader, though.

On this particular night, the Inquisitor was leaning against the wall, nursing a beer and watching Josephine trounce them in a game of Wicked Grace. And she was, certainly, watching Josephine specifically; if she looked any harder she’d burn a hole in those lovely dark braids.

“Has she always been this sweet on her?” Hawke murmured to Varric, seated next to her. Josephine was collecting her winnings with a modest smile. Varric followed her gaze to the Inquisitor and let out a little snort.

“Pretty much.” Varric gathered up the cards to shuffle them, and then raised his voice to say to the table at large: “Who’s in for another, then?”

Josephine bowed out, having humbled them enough, and with her departure it was generally agreed that they had lost enough coin for one evening. Hawke watched as Josephine picked up her glass of brandy and made her way over to Adaar, who snapped to attention and then instantly stooped a little, rounding her shoulders as if to make herself smaller. “She’s positively bashful,” Hawke remarked. Adaar was touching the toe of one boot to the heel of the other as Josephine laughed at some joke she had made. “Which of them will make the first move, do you think?”

“My money’s on Ruffles,” Varric said, “but then again, people can surprise you.”

“Silly,” Hawke scoffed, as Varric tapped the cards into a tidy stack and tucked them away in their little leather satchel. “They’re wasting precious time.”

“Yes,” said Varric, his tone turning pointed, “why _do_ people dance around the subject instead of saying what they really feel?”

Hawke refused to look away from Adaar and Josephine. Josephine had made the bold move to touch a hand to Adaar’s arm, just above her elbow, and it was hard to tell in the torchlight, but Hawke thought Adaar might have been blushing. “Well, you ought to know,” Hawke said, sounding more sour than she meant to, “being the expert in it.”

To her surprise, Varric laughed, low and warm. Hawke risked a glance and found him watching her, but she couldn’t tell what the look on his face was meant to be. “I think I’m tapping out,” he said. “You want to escort me back to my room?”

Hawke gave him a long look. “Sure,” she said. “Rough neighbourhood, this one.”

“I might get lost,” said Varric as he got to his feet. She had to admire his ability to say a thing like that, utterly straight-faced and with such sincerity that a person could almost find herself believing it - if she hadn’t been watching him do it for the better part of a decade.

Hawke found herself dragging her feet a little as they walked, not from drink or exhaustion but from a growing sense that she had lost the reins, here, and she had no idea in which direction Varric was taking them. “Nice night,” she said, just to keep the atmosphere light.

Varric humoured her, looking around at the clear sky, milky with stars, and the dew settling on the grass. “Never thought living in the mountains would be so temperate,” he agreed.

Having remarked upon the weather, they fell silent. As they passed through the hall, she nearly said something about the restorations at Skyhold and how well they were going, but it made her think of Kirkwall, still little more than rubble, and she thought better of it. She had never been particularly skilled at small talk, and had never needed to be with Varric.

“Why don’t you come in,” he said, when they reached his door. He held it open like a gentleman - _after you_.

“I thought you were going to bed,” Hawke said warily.

“We’ll see,” said Varric.

She brushed past him and he followed her inside, shutting the door behind them. “Are we going to have a drink?” she asked.

“You can if you like,” said Varric, which meant he wouldn’t be. There was no fun in drinking alone, but Hawke desperately wanted something to do with her hands. She settled for picking up his seal stamp and turning it over in her fingers, examining the crest carved into the bottom. Varric lit a candle while she fiddled with it.

“Let’s talk.” The chairs from their game of dice last week were still here; Varric took a seat in one and gestured at the other. Hawke remained standing. The door was shut, but it wasn’t bolted or anything. She could still make a run for it.

“What do you want to talk about?” Hawke asked. This was not how she had meant for all this to go down.

“I thought we might talk about this game we’re playing,” Varric said, his tone light. “The one where you’re wearing my clothes and leaving your shirt half-buttoned and watching me like you’re cataloguing my eye movements.”

Hawke made a noise of disgust. “We’re not supposed to _talk_ about that.”

“We aren’t?”

“No! Either you’re absolutely indifferent, so it’s not even an issue, or you’re meant to just - explode with lust one day and kiss me, and then there’s no talking necessary. It’s _very_ simple, Varric.” Hawke was still examining the stamp, its worn-smooth handle and the little bits of dried wax stuck in the seam between bronze and wood. She began to pick at the wax remnants with a fingernail.

Varric took the stamp from her and set it down on the desk. When had he stood up again? “Marian,” he said. There was something almost sympathetic about it, and despite everything, her heart was rattling around in her chest like a child’s toy. “I’ve had ten years of practise at wanting you and not being able to do shit about it. What makes you think I’d suddenly lose control now?”

“Well,” Hawke replied, hoping she sounded like a person who was perfectly calm and _not_ reeling from that confession, “blind hope, I suppose, and also, I used my tits this time.”

Varric let out a huff of laughter. “That you did. Of all the myriad ways you could’ve chosen to tell me you were interested, I won’t complain about you choosing this one.”

He’d taken a step towards her. He was standing very close now; when Hawke shifted her weight, bending one knee, she bumped his thigh. “So,” she said, and it came out a little high-pitched. “What else did you want to talk about?”

“Oh.” Varric put a hand on her waist, and the heat of it was unreal, even through her shirt. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“No, that was pretty much it. I think we covered it all. The important stuff, anyway.”

“Right.” Hawke looked down at him, his heavy brow and lovely hazel eyes and the faintly crooked, once-broken nose and the tiny scar on his right cheekbone that sometimes caught the light. Suddenly she felt like she was on the edge of a chasm. To take that last step - to kiss him - seemed unthinkable, terrifying on a level she could hardly fathom. She teetered. “Right, then.”

“Hawke,” he said, and before she could second-guess herself any more, she leaned down and kissed him, and her stomach swooped like she was in freefall. He made a sound against her lips, pressing up to meet her, and Hawke put a hand to his jaw, tilting her head and guiding his movements to mirror her. His pulse thudded beneath her little finger. She took a breath through her nose and all she could smell was Varric - soap, leather, that Orlesian cologne - it stoked something in her, made her surge forward with a fervor that might have knocked a lesser man back. Varric, steady, steadfast, _strong_ , only tightened his hold on her waist and pulled her closer. She could feel his hand on her lower back, fingers spread wide, and as she brushed her tongue across his upper lip to gauge his reaction, she allowed herself a moment to indulge in a girlish, uncharacteristic thought: that his hands were so _big-_ And then he was licking into her mouth, behind her teeth. He tasted of whiskey from the tavern and she could not keep herself from catching his lip with her teeth when he drew back for breath. What had been an abstract thought was suddenly a real and deep-seated hunger, twisting her stomach into knots.

“Shit,” Varric breathed, hot against her lips. He pulled her closer, drew a hand up her spine until she shivered, and then they were kissing again, harder now - he was turning her, and she scarcely realized until she felt something hit the backs of her knees and heard the clatter of a chair tipping over. Varric tried to pull away and she could feel the apology on his lips - instead she sank her hand into his hair and barely fought the urge to pull, to find some outlet for the heat rising in her gut. She took a step backwards, praying the second chair was well out of the way, and they sank down to the bed; Hawke rolled them, almost immediately, until she sat astride Varric’s hips.

He looked up at her, dazed; she had messed up his ponytail, and some strands had escaped. His hands were resting on her thighs, and she could feel the tension in his body even as he seemed only to be waiting for her next move. She let herself enjoy it for a moment: the way he looked at her and the way he said her name, sounding both fond and a little vexed. “Did you just come to admire the view?” he asked. “Not that I haven’t had a few good fantasies that started this way…”

Hawke smiled. “Tell me how the middle goes, then. And the end.”

“Stories, stories,” he said, spreading his fingers on his thighs so his thumbs skirted the edges of her. Her stomach muscles tensed in response. “Is that all I’m good for?”

“Oh, come on.” Hawke leaned down and bit his lower lip, quick, admonishing. “I thought you loved the sound of your own voice.”

Varric let out a hum, low and thoughtful. “Usually, in these fantasies, you’re already naked,” he said. “Or - and this is a recent addition, you understand - you might be in my shirt. Just my shirt, of course.” He lifted a hand to touch her stomach, sliding upwards and pressing just hard enough to take some fabric with him, untucking her shirt. Hawke arched into the touch as it traveled between her breasts - unbound, tonight, thank the Maker - and he caught hold of the laces, loosely tied at the base of her throat.

“And riding your cock like a wild horse, I suppose,” Hawke said, as if the thought didn’t make her clench around the air. She could feel him, hard against her ass. Varric let out a noise halfway between a laugh and a groan.

“You always have to skip ahead, don’t you,” he said. He tugged on one end of the laces, unraveling the sloppy bow and allowing him to part the fabric, far more slowly than she would have liked.

Hawke rolled her hips into him in the hopes of speeding him up. “The good parts are always ahead,” she insisted.

Her shirt sufficiently loosened, he pushed it up over her head and tossed it to the side. Varric sat up then, and she rose up a little on her knees to accommodate. “The good parts are happening now,” he said, and kissed her stomach, just above her navel, and then again, a little higher, his stubble rasping against her skin. She put a hand to the back of his head. It shocked her, how good it felt, all of it. He took her nipple into his mouth, flicking his tongue across it, and she shuddered, felt her breath catch in her throat and heard the tiny sound it made, deafening in the silence of his room.

Varric turned his head, pressing his forehead to her collarbone, a hand at her back pressing her closer to him. “Fuck,” he muttered, his voice rough. “Hawke-”

“ _Fuck_ me,” Hawke commanded, and she _felt_ his groan rumbling through his chest and into her. “I swear, if you don’t fucking get on with it-”

“Someday,” Varric said, leaning back and working at the fastenings on his tunic with purpose, “someday, Hawke, I’ll teach you patience.”

“ _Will_ you,” said Hawke, momentarily distracted by the fascinating implications in that promise. She got off him just long enough to tear off her belt and kick away her trousers and socks. She took a moment to indulge in the sight of him - hair falling loose from its tie, broad chest, thick arms rippling with muscle as he pushed his trousers off his hips. His cock bounced free, thick and flushed, and Hawke bit down on the tip of her tongue. He was watching her, too; scarcely had she swung her leg over his hips once again that he was reaching for her, pulling her to him. She tried to sink down onto him but without a hand to steady them, his cock slipped away, sliding against her cunt and drawing a groan from them both.

“Here-” said Varric, but she batted his hand away and wrapped her fingers around him. Varric let out a breath, tightening his hold on her thigh. She lined them up, going slow so that the stretch never became too much. It had been years since anyone had been inside of her. “ _Marian_ ,” Varric said, when she had taken him to the hilt, sounding as though it was being torn right from his chest. “You feel-”

“I know,” Hawke gasped, not out of ego but because she _knew_. He was so hot, inside her and beneath her, his hands like brands on her thigh and on her spine. She tilted her hips, and felt his muscles bunch as he rolled up to meet her. It had been years and yet she found the rhythm again in an instant. Her thighs burned pleasantly and she rose up and sank down, Varric matching her movements, sometimes a little too readily - she laughed when he nearly unseated her. “Sorry,” he whispered, and somehow that only made her laugh harder.

“Don’t be sorry,” she said, when the laughter had died. She held herself at the apex, only the head of him still inside her. “You know I like a challenge.”

“Andraste,” was all Varric had to say, taking the hand off her thigh and using it to push himself up, pulling her down onto him again with a little pressure in the small of her back. She nearly teased him for saying another woman's name in bed, but the shift in position had pushed him deeper inside her and it banished the thought from her mind; Hawke dropped her head and ground down into him. She could hear herself making these little breathy sounds which she would certainly be embarrassed of in an hour or so but could not find the strength to swallow. Varric pressed with his hand once again, guiding the movements of her hips, and she curled her spine until she kissed him, hard and deep. They had lost some of their finesse, trading shaky breaths between them. She wanted to drink the air from his lungs.

“Tell me you’re close,” Hawke gasped when they finally broke apart. She clenched down on him and he swore.

“Hawke,” Varric said, sounding hoarse and like he might laugh, “I’ve been close since you - you know what, never mind, for my pride’s sake-”

Hawke planted a hand in the centre of his chest and pushed him back down to the mattress. She leaned over him, driving her hips down and feeling his answering moan in her core. “Touch me,” she demanded, and he did, his thumb on her clit drawing little circles, too soft at first. “Harder - just a little-” And Varric, bless him and his beautiful, big hands and his exceptional capacity for taking directions, firmed up his touch just enough that something inside of her coiled tighter and tighter inside her until it snapped and she felt the echoes of it in her teeth. She tightened around him again, involuntary this time, and she felt it when he started to come, her name falling from his lips like prayer,

When she felt sure enough of her motor control to untangle herself from him, she rolled away and onto her back beside him, still breathing hard. Her head felt light; the room smelled of sex, warm and mineral. Hawke thought she might still be feeling the flutters of aftershocks. Varric reached down to pull the blanket up over them both before the sweat cooled on their skin.

“Hey,” Varric said, after a few long moments had passed and she was beginning to catch her breath. He rolled onto his side to look at her. “You have to promise me something.”

His tone was so solemn that Hawke felt a cold trickle of anxiety. “What?” she said, leaning up on her elbow.

“No matter what happens,” Varric went on, holding her gaze, “you can’t - and I really mean this, Hawke - you can’t fucking wear my shirt out in public like that again.”

“Shit!” Hawke laughed, high-pitched with shock, and then hit him in the bicep, as hard as she could without any real momentum. “You bastard, you had me! What, are you getting possessive on me?”

“No,” he said, rubbing his arm and wincing, “but I don’t feel like getting a semi in the tavern again. It’s not a threat, it’s a request.”

“Oh,” said Hawke, preening a little as she settled back down next to him. He put his arm around her shoulders, and it made a surprisingly comfortable pillow. “Well. In _that_ case. I’ll take it into consideration.”


End file.
